


let's embrace the point of no return

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma’s struggles with choosing a dress for her date; Killian helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's embrace the point of no return

Nervous for Emma doesn’t mean wringing hands or pacing. It means throwing herself into whatever she’s doing headfirst, although that probably wasn’t the best idea for this dress. She should’ve stepped into it, and now she’s stuck and the only way she’s going to get out of it or into it is by doing the very thing she swore she wouldn’t do.

“Killian, get in here!” she calls through the door.

He opens it in seconds because _of course_ he was waiting just outside the door.

What are friends for, right? Ready to assist you whenever you happen to get yourself stuck in your underwear (matching) and your dress (skin tight)?

Ready to stare at you with eyes that you’re not sure aren’t hungry - which you aren’t (totally, completely) sure you want to be hungry - and laugh.

Fucking _laugh_.

“Nice knickers, Swan,” he says. “You really aren’t expecting this date to go anywhere are you? Or have you changed your seduction tactics to include the Jedi Mind Trick?”

She can’t cross her arms or place them aggressively on her hips because they’re all tangled up in the dress, but she gives him a look over the black material so he knows she wants to.

“You picked them,” she says.

He’s still laughing when he says, “Not for this.”

“Then what for - goddammit, just get me in this dress.”

He steps into her and he’s so close that she can feel him breathing. It’s uncomfortable. You’re not supposed to want these things, right? Emma’s _definitely_ not supposed to want these things, especially when she’s going on a date, a real, not work related date.

That she’s wearing matching black and yellow Star Wars themed underwear to.

Killian is right. He knows her too fucking well, because she’s hoping it goes nowhere at all - and preparing herself for the worst, for a moment where she almost believes it’ll go right if she takes the guy home, until the thought of him seeing her underwear set brings her back down to the reality that it could go perfectly, but she’s wearing the underwear Killian bought her.

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeve. Emma’s, however, makes for decent breast support and excellent butt coverage.

“Is that better?” Killian asks as he tugs the dress over said breasts and butt, bending carefully so he can smooth out the wrinkles that’ll no doubt make a reappearance when she walks. The dress really is skin-tight.

And Emma knows him too fucking well, too, because he lingers by her mid-thigh for long enough this his breath leaves a sheen of heat behind and he could’ve kissed her there and it wouldn’t have been more obvious that he _loves_ this dress.

“Better,” Emma says. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, love,” he says and what are friends for except knowing exactly what you need.

And ignoring all those things that you (both, maybe) want.

“So what do you think? First date material?” Emma asks.

Killian shakes his head quickly. “Not even close. I say this is, ‘moved in together and we’re supposed to be going out on a date, but we don’t make it out the bedroom’ material.”

Killian: roommate in her bedroom who also has a date tonight, she remembers at exactly the wrong time. Which is now. Right now when his eyes keep dipping to her cleavage with that smirk playing on his lips like he knows exactly what he said.

He does know _exactly_ what he said, _and_ he means it. Asshole.

“So, I should change,” she mumbles.

She steps backwards towards the closet, and just like she suspected, the dress is already riding up. Emma pushes at the wrinkles futilely. It’s coming off anyway, it doesn’t matter except his eyes are zoning in on the wrinkles and what she realizes are not actually wrinkles but the outline of her underwear.

Skin-tight equals underwear tight. She forgot that.

Killian didn’t.

“I’d start with the underwear,” he suggests. He smirks and raises his eyebrows at the hand she still has stroking over her underwear as if she keeps doing it, the lines will fade.

“You’re desperate to get me laid, aren’t you?” Emma asks.

She’s going to need his help getting out of this dress, too, but that can wait until they get out whatever is obviously turning their brains to mush. It’s always easier that way, to let the tension all out (well, not all out because it still leaves her frustrated even after the teasing is over; her pillow has suffered more beatings over Killian Jones than it should.) It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t want anything more when they’ve run out of jabs to throw at each other and it’s just her and him and the pressing weight of those damn things people liked to call feelings, or in Emma’s case, things that could ruin the best friendship she’s ever had in her life.

(She’s had and has great, wonderful friendships, relationships she never thought she would have, but Emma means this all the same.)

“Desperate isn’t exactly the word for it but close enough, Swan,” he says.

Emma nods. “You’re right. Obsessed is more like it.”

He pouts, bottom lip jutting out for just the right amount of time that he could be truly upset, until he smirks and says, “I’m concerned. It’s been over a year.”

It could almost be friendly concern. She almost believes that.

“You don’t see me concerned about your sex life,” Emma says.

“That’s because you’re not a good friend,” he says, the pout back with a vengeance and the sad eyes to accompany it.

Completely friendly, still.

Emma shrugs. “I might not be a good one, but I am the best one because I know for a fact, Jones, that you’re in more dire straits than me in that department. We share an apartment.”

Friendly as fuck.

“Well, I know for a fact that your helpful little friend isn’t as quiet as you think it is, Swan,” Killian adds, glancing towards her nightstand.

_Fuck._

Fuck it all.

“And I know that it’s exactly the reason you haven’t said anything before now. You like it loud,” Emma says.

She purses her lips and lifts her eyebrows, the expression all ‘Buddy, I can see right through you.’

He returns the look.

“So, do you,” he says.

She takes a step towards him in challenge. Forget the highway to hell, it’s the carpeted walk to terribly (good? bad?) Mistake-Ville.

And, oh, good, he comes to meet her, hands already reaching out towards the dress.

“You need help getting out of that?” Killian asks.

He winks.

“In a moment, yeah, but I think -”

He has his hands already on the hem of her dress, fingers inching up the fabric to rub against her skin. Rub more than is strictly friendly and in no way helpful for what she walked over to say.

(And every time she shifts just a bit more into the touch, he kneads a little harder, knuckles in places that could ruin them and his mouth twitches, focused on pretending he isn’t doing what he’s doing, stepping over lines that Emma’s already started to scratch out of existence.)

It certainly doesn’t help her say what she needs to which is...which could be any number of retorts, easy things that’ll sidestep the look in his eyes and the blood rushing in her head, the thumping in her heart, seeking more than it should. It could be any number of easy shutdowns to draw the tension back behind the walls that still keep him out no matter how many times he attempts the climb or how many times she lets him reach the summit.

It could be anything she wants to say, which is...

“I think you’re right. I should start with the underwear.”

She’s nervous about this and because nervous Emma throws herself in head first (and her heart’s in it a little too, maybe more so than her head), she has her hands joining his beneath her dress faster than he can let out the gasp of surprise.

Her underwear are easy to step out of when she’s still barefoot so it’s only a matter of him getting with the program.

“I think this is a bad idea, for the record,” Emma says.

She trembles there, right at the end when he starts to draw his hands up higher with a singular focus.

“Excellent,” he says and jolts her gaze from his disappearing hands to his face. He’s grinning, but not in the way she expects him to with all false smugness, false because she doesn’t expect him to show his actual hand (which is funny when his hand is almost flat to her inner thigh and there’s no way she can see that with her eyes on his - his eyes drawing across her face until they settle on hers, the look reverent and his smile damning in its sincerity.)

He tries to smile wider, but it fades into something that verges on words Emma’s only ever said half-heartedly (because full-hearted would be too much, more dangerous than this, even.)

“And let the record show that not only do I think this is a brilliant idea, but that we also both _know_ that to be true,” he says and fuck, he’s _right_.

She grabs him by the T-shirt he’s still in because Killian “is never late for any appointment, date, or taco night” Jones evidently had no plans to leave the house anytime soon. Touching him comes as some kind of weird shock because now it feels all too real, the fact that she’s about to irrevocably change their whole relationship because she _knows_ that he’s right. She takes a deep breath, almost drawing her hands all the way back.

“Emma, I don’t want to do this if you’re not completely with me because I _know_ you. I don’t want you running away from me, love,” Killian says.

Her gaze has fallen again, staring at the black of his T-shirt instead of his eyes, which she knows are probably doing their intense thing that they sometimes (often) do when he’s looking at her.

Like that time she broke up with Walsh.

Like that time she swore off of dating her friends.

“I’m here,” she says, moving her hands along his chest.  She set this in motion, she might as well set her hands in motion, too.

“For now,” he says, voice all rumbly and foreboding.

Emma catches herself smiling too broadly, but it’s hard to fight when he’s smiling at her, too. It’s hard to find words when his hands are still bunching up her dress, inching ever closer to where the tension has decided to settle in.

“Don’t use your movie announcer voice when you’re about to go down on me,” she says.

“Oh, is that what this is?” he asks, again in his movie announcer voice and he keeps doing it as he pulls away from her hand to drop down onto his knees.  “A short time ago, in a hallway not so far away…”

“Seriously?”

Emma’s voice breaks on the word, rising and falling with her chest when his fingers stroke over her, not enough to be a real touch or do anything more than make her breath catch, but enough to make her head spin with words, jumbled thoughts that amount to one thing: _holy fuck_.

He returns to his regular voice just long enough to say, “Hush, Emma, let me finish.” Back to his movie announcer voice, which isn’t very Star Wars-like in his accent, he says, “A man was sitting on the floor, making plans to stay at another friend’s house because he was hoping his best friend might have a successful date for once.”

Killian reaches up again and Emma startles, tilting towards him.  “I thought you had a date -” she says.

“A date with Lance’s couch.”

“You didn’t need to do that. My situation isn’t that desperate,” Emma says.

“Mine is,” Killian says.

Emma stills, understanding short-circuiting her brain. It takes a moment for her to reboot, but then a longer moment still for her to do anything but sputter at him.

“Oh,” she says because _that_ isn’t totally a non-answer.

“Yeah.”

Slowly, he inches the skirt of her dress up her hips, the material dragging across her now too sensitive skin. It tingles, but he effectively distracts her from that by brushing his fingers over her again. This time his fingers dip just enough to catch the wetness on his fingers.

Just enough to make him groan and tug her dress all the way up her hips - he wastes no time after that. Words die a noble death on Emma’s lips as he spreads her thighs, tossing one leg over his shoulder, holding her carefully in his grip so when his mouth connects with her she doesn’t fall back and crack her head open.

She rocks precariously though, her whole body straining towards the soft caress of his lips. He starts to pull on her clit, teasing her into breathy pants and a quiet admission of, “Okay, maybe mine is, too.”

He laughs against her, the sound rumbling through her body. Her spine draws tight; she arches towards him and he meets her, alternating between lapping at her clit with furious swipes and gentle pulls of his lips and teeth. She can’t catch herself between the soft touch and the hard, not when his mouth is hot on her.

Emma doesn’t know why it takes her so long to dig her fingers into his scalp and begin tugging, but once she does, she can’t stop twisting his hair into tufts. When he draws back and says, “Mine is worse,” Emma nearly wrenches hairs from his head, laughing and moaning at the same time.

While he’s licking at her inner folds, Emma struggles to say, “This isn’t a competition,” and while she’s riding his tongue, her hips rolling with his motions, he struggles to pull back long enough to say, “I’m not competing.”

But he drives his tongue deeper, not exactly proving his point when he’s obviously trying to make her scream.

“Oh fucking hell,” Emma breathes out when he balances her so he only needs one hand to hold her up - her knees are shaking but she keeps standing, and it helps that Killian grabs her hand from her hair and holds it tight in his.

She’s so close to giving him what he wants. Gritting her teeth doesn’t help when she’s afraid she might bite her own tongue in half when the moan breaks through. Squeezing his hand doesn’t stop her chest from rising and falling in fast, loud breaths.

He pulls away again, sucking in a breath.

“You taste so bloody good,” Killian says.

And when he returns, Emma fucking whimpers as he works her harder. She doesn’t scream when her body tenses and sails over the edge, clear into the horizon where she splinters into a thousand billion pieces, but she nearly falls which is just as embarrassing.

(And proves his point just as well – she _likes_ it loud.)

“Okay, you win, you win,” she says as he’s easing her down, licking at her softly, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand in gentling circles.

He pulls back but not from between her legs. He lays kisses over her inner thighs, his beard dragging roughly over her - she’s even more sensitive now and she can’t believe how she keeps jumping with every touch, can’t believe that he’s -

“How’s that for a Jedi Mind trick, Swan?” he asks, dropping her leg from his shoulder and pushing her to her feet.

Killian draws up sharply when she tugs at his hair in retaliation.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Emma says, pulling him to his feet.

He grins at her - “Well?”

She licks at her lip and he follows the motion, doing the same, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, into the corners where she can see wetness lingering.

“It’s okay,” she says. “But I can do you one better.”

It’s not a competition. It’s not.

Doesn’t stop Emma from drawing him towards her bed, from spinning them so he falls back against it first, so she can hop into his lap without much effort. It doesn’t take much effort to tug his sweatpants down either, thank the gods, because she’s trying to prove a point here.

A point that she loses somewhere between pulling his boxers down and feeling him in her hand. He’s silky smooth, big, hard - his cock practically begging to be touched, stroked for long, long minutes until he’s even harder in her hand, jumping with every little touch, precum leaking from the tip, begging to be licked off too -

Oh, god, she’s definitely lost her point because there’s no way she can draw this out, not when she can’t stop from rubbing him against her clit, savoring the heat of him.

“Is this your trick, Emma?” he breathes out.

She looks at him - didn’t realize she hadn’t been looking at him until she catches herself in the darkness of his eyes and his parted red lips.

“No,” Emma says. “Not a trick.”

Her dress feels too tight on her. There’s no way she’s getting out of this thing without help, and he looks in no position to do that as she rises up above him, keeping one hand on his length so she can angle him just right.

She falls down onto him, slowly sheathing him in her heat. It burns a little, the stretch almost too good for words as she edges down, taking more of him with every tiny rock of her hips.

Killian edges up onto his elbows but makes no moves towards her - no intentional ones, but he’s the one who closes that last inch between them before she’s fully in his lap.

Looking at him again, Emma shakes her head at his strained smirk - “Don’t you dare.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word, Swan.”

She rises up, high enough that only tip of him is inside her when she settles back down. Mimicking him, she says, “A moment ago, in a dress far too tight to be wearable anywhere…”

“Okay, that is bloody annoying,” he agrees.

“You -” She slips down again, filling herself with him but only making the ache grow. “You think?”

“I know. I know it like I know you,” he says.

He gives her very little warning before he sits up fully, and pulls her back down with him. He slips out of her, but nothing that his hands can’t fix. He’s back inside her before her pining cry can fully escape her lips, fucking up into her while his mouth finds her throat.

“I know you like neck kisses, but you don’t like it when they leave hickeys behind. You’ve worn too many turtlenecks in summer weather,” he says in between lingering kisses that are hard enough to make her skin tingle, but not too hard to bruise.

Hickeys: Emma hates them. He’s right, he’s so right there where she likes him (them? _him_ ) to be, right in the crease between her neck and shoulder, licking and kissing and generally making her want to tug at the severely tousled hair tickling at her chin and cheek.

“You like them, too,” Emma says. “And you fucking love hickeys.”

With difficulty, she pulls away from him so she’s the one laying kisses on him, pressing them into his jawline and down towards his neck, sucking them harder and harder - and it’s not a competition but she knows him, knows how much he’s going to love being marked by her because he -

He growls low, but he doesn’t get a word in because she pulls upwards and says, “And you love when I brush your cheek just like this.”

She runs her fingers over him, content with the way he stills inside her because she wouldn’t be able to take that and the look he gives her, like he’s amazed she remembers every time she’s ever done it, every time she’s reached for him, wanting to feel him beneath her fingers if only for a moment and he’s leaned into her touch just like he’s doing now.

“I do love that, Emma,” he says, slowly pumping his hips again.

With his hands on her waist, it’s easy for him to bounce her on his cock, easy to make her start panting again as the pleasure curls from her stomach to her toes, winding its way towards her center where he’s hitting that spot that makes her want to cry - that does make her cry when his kiss misses her cheek and his breath runs hot over her skin, “Want me to tell you what else I know?”

“Like?”

“I know this isn’t going to be enough for you, that you’re going to crave me every second that I’m not filling your tight little pussy - that you love how hard I am for you, how desperate I am, how close I am because of you -”

She doesn’t hear the rest because Killian does _know_ , somehow figured out how much she loves _this_ even though she’s never told anyone how she craves hearing what she’s doing to him (them? _him_ ), what he’s doing to her -

Emma comes again, feeling the way he tenses with her - and then starts moving harder, faster like it’s okay now that she’s burying her face in his throat and crying out his name, clenching around his thick length and feeling when he draws so deep that they nearly become one as he comes, her pleasure chased by his own.

She snuggles into him, not caring that she should probably move before the position becomes awkward and painful on her limbs.

“I know that you’re ready to confess your love for me, Emma, but you should first cancel your date,” Killian says.

“I am _so_ not ready to do either of those things.”

Killian turns into her, carefully disentangling them - Emma’s not even ready to move let alone speak about anything, especially not that -

“So, what’s the final judgement?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

She can’t quite move to look at him but she shifts a bit so her nose isn’t just in the hollow of his shoulder.

“Brilliant idea or…”

She laughs. “I’ll reserve that answer until after you help me out of my dress.”

“Now _that_ is a _brilliant_ idea,” Killian says.

“I know,” Emma hums into his skin.

More things that she knows: that anything else she might say would be too damning and that she’ll need to save that for later when her head’s not lost somewhere between fuck me sideways and _fuck me sideways_.

“You _know_ -”

She does, she does, so she lets him keep talking as he lifts her up - doesn’t really care about what he says because he gets the dress over her shoulders with ease, her bra tossed god knows where, and pulls her up beside him so that when she finally reaches for her phone to cancel her date, she has him at her back, whispering, “In a galaxy far, far away…”

And he knows – knows that it’s annoying as fuck but that she loves it anyway because it makes her giggle as she drops her phone and relaxes her enough to give her final judgement.

“Bloody brilliant idea,” she murmurs as he runs his hand down her back, humming happily beside her.


End file.
